Chapter 8

<<At the midnight hour, we’re closer to hell than we are to heaven,>> Hairy tweets.

“Are you sure this is it?” Jonny asks, leaning across my seat to peer out the window into darkness.

I check the pulsing blue dot on the phone again. “Google doesn’t lie.”

“Not sure about that, but I can’t see how this place ever used Assured Destruction.”

I have to agree.

The van’s sitting beside a high gate. A security camera peers down at us. Rolls of razor wire run along the surrounding fence. Beyond the gate is a field of snow without a single tree or shrub, and then a red brick mansion in the middle. The house has three stories, four if you count the stone turret, and a three-car garage. An old-style TV antenna climbs from the ground to the peak. It’s lit like a prison; high-powered lights shine down on the field from the four corners.

“This is the address,” I say. I check it again: 42 Fifth Line, Gatineau, Quebec.

“Maybe I should try the intercom?” I wait for Jonny’s objection, but he’s quiet.

Gravel crunches beneath the wheels as I turn into the drive and stare into the camera. Above the intercom, carved in stone, is the image of a skull with a chain dangling from an eye socket and then wrapping around its neck. I’ve seen it before, but I’m not sure where.

“Nice,” I say, showing the carving to Jonny.

My finger hovers over the intercom button. I want to press it as much as I want to jab a needle in my neck, but it took almost half an hour to drive from Ottawa out into the depths of Quebec. Forest hugs the fence line, but I can see where overhanging branches have been cut back. These people are serious about their privacy.

“It’s electric,” Jonny says and points to the image of the exploding skeleton they’ve wired to the fence.

“Still, can’t hurt to talk to them,” I say as if trying to convince myself.

“Really?” Jonny’s hand clutches my shoulder when I reach out to push the button. “Look,” he whispers.

Someone stands in the drive silhouetted by the light. He’s holding something. It could be a rake, or a rifle.

“Maybe we’ll skip this one,” I say. “We don’t need all the customers. A couple would be fine.”

“Good plan,” Jonny agrees and doesn’t release my shoulder until we’re half a mile down the road.

“What was that place?” I say.

Jonny just shakes his head. “Group of hermits? Cult?”

“That recycles like a hundred computers a week?” I ask.

“Maybe it’s bigger underground.”

“Maybe,” I swallow. “Our pizza’s going to be cold.”

“I’m a little queasy actually.”

“There’s another former customer on the way home,” I say. “Do you mind? Last one, I swear.”

“As long as I don’t have to go in.”

A motorcycle, one of those huge ones with chrome and a heavy chop to it, rips past. Neither of us says anything, but we both can guess where it’s headed. I’m trying to remember where else I saw the skull before.

The next customer in question is in Ottawa’s core. Again, something’s not quite right because we’re passing retail stores, the Rideau Mall, even the Parliament buildings. This isn’t where a big company would have offices requiring Assured Destruction’s services. Turning south, it’s more of the same, but at least we’re into a few office towers.

“Here it is.” I point at the store beneath the building and double-check the address.

“I thought you said we were headed to an old customer first?” Jonny asks.

“I am; we are; this is the address and that’s the right name.”

“It’s a pizza joint. A ZaZa.”

“A ZaZa, U Technical, AAA Limited,” I say, rhyming off the different customers. They’re all stupid names but somehow seem linked. I pull over.

“You said we weren’t going in,” Jonny says as I lower myself to the pavement, leaving the van running.

“You. You said as long as you don’t have to go in.”

Jonny doesn’t follow me. The lights are still on in the restaurant, but I startle some kid behind the counter, who tries to hide the comic he was reading.

“Hey,” I say.

“What can I get you?” He’s young to be working a restaurant so late and looks the way I sometimes feel when I haven’t seen a customer all day and someone arrives.

There’s not much to buy. Three remaining slices of pizza bake under heat lamps. The cheese has congealed, as has the grease on the pepperoni.

“I dunno; it all looks so great.” I try to take the sarcasm from my voice but it’s so hard. “You guys use a lot of computers here?”

The kid itches at his pimples and glances around. “Um … no.”

“Used to be a customer of my dad’s,” I say. “Assured Destruction.”

He shrugs. “I just started. Do you want a slice? I think these are from before lunch. Maybe yesterday … I can try to make you something.”

I tap the We Deliver—It’s A ZaZa Pizza! sign.

He flushes. “The guy who trained me said the only delivery we get is like an hour driving to some mansion—told me to close up shop if it happens.”

I laugh. “Then how would they make any money here?”

He shrugs his narrow frame. “The mansion tips real good.”

I raise an eyebrow and peer around with a new eye. I’ve spent enough time trying to save Assured Destruction to learn a bit about business. The rent on a location like this would be pretty high. So how can they survive selling day-old pizza and shutting the store down to deliver? A table leg hangs crooked. Light bulbs are dark in the ceiling. Flypaper in one corner is a black mat of dead bugs. A video camera pans from another corner. I go cold as its lens focuses on me.

Just then someone pushes in through the door. He stands there at the exit, arms crossed. The leather of his jacket makes cracking sounds as he flexes a bull neck. Brown hair shot with gray is pulled back into a ponytail.

Now what’re the chances of the same guy showing up here as the one I saw smoking at AAA Limited? And with the same skull emblazoned on his jacket as the one at U Technical?

Fear prickles between my shoulder blades, causing shudders.

“I gotta go,” I say. As I turn, I pull the hood of my jacket over my head and tighten the cords so that I look like a worm.

When I pass, the biker guy says, “Leave it alone, Janus.”

I halt. Even though a second ago I was freezing, I’m sweating under my hoody. I pull it back and look up at the guy. He’s old to be a meathead. Lines spring from his eyes, his jutting chin clean shaven with a firm, but softening jaw line. The bridge of his nose is off-kilter as if it’s been broken once or twice.

“How do you know my name?”

His face twitches. “You leave it alone,” he says.

“Do you know my father?” I step closer so that I’m under his chin.

And I think I see his expression fissure, like there’s something he wants to say to me, but can’t.

“We’re closed for the night.” He opens the door and grabs my elbow, swinging me outside. Pain constricts my breath, and I can’t speak as I hop to stay upright.

On the sidewalk, I stare back into the store until the clerk is shoved out beside me. The lights turn off.

“Worst job ever,” the kid says and then walks away.

When the pain subsides, I cross the street and climb into the van, drawing a deep breath before speaking to Jonny: “It’s a bad place.”

“Jan, I don’t think you should try any more of these customers.”

I just nod in total agreement. I shouldn’t. It’s not really about the money, though, is it? A current of excitement lances through me. I’m closer to finding my father than ever.